


A Love of Looking

by CertifiedPissWizard



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Other, Trust, reed gets poetic what crimes will they commit, set somewhere in a weird season 2 season 3 hybrid, the intimacy of knowing that you and your love could destroy eachother but won't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:13:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23915128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CertifiedPissWizard/pseuds/CertifiedPissWizard
Summary: "You could unmake me, Archivist. You could destroy me, could change me just as much as your predecessor did. You could know me." Michael stares at him, impossible shapes, impossible hair, impossible eyes. Jon looks, not Looks. It trusts him not to Look.
Relationships: Michael/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 5
Kudos: 87





	A Love of Looking

"You could unmake me, Archivist. You could destroy me, could change me just as much as your predecessor did. You could know me." Michael stares at him, impossible shapes, impossible hair, impossible eyes. Jon looks, not Looks. It trusts him not to Look. He doesn't know what to do with this trust, doesn't know why he has it. It scares him, obviously it scares him. How could it not? He's done nothing to deserve this, this vulnerability. He closes his eyes, leans his head into the crook that's where Michael's neck would meet its shoulder if its form could possibly be described as having a neck or shoulders currently. It places a hand in Jon's hair, pinprick, scalpel fingers combing lightly over his scalp. He wraps his hands in its hair, combing through it, clinging to it, letting the hair twist itself around his fingers. "Look at you, Archivist. Terrifying." Jon lets out a huff, laughter, he supposes.

"I love you too, Michael." Michael is one to talk. It could kill him, destroy him, distort him, change him so far as to be unrecognizable. One of these times he meets it in its corridors it could trap him, could never let him go. Jon is scared constantly. He can't find it in himself to trust Martin, Tim, Sasha. Someone is lying to him, Michael said. He thinks Michael may be right, the throat of lies warning him about lies. It's terribly funny. Jon doesn't laugh. One of its hands moves to the back of his neck, squeezes for a second, claws digging in. A warning and a reminder and Jon should be more scared than he is right now. He can't though. Michael doesn't lie to him about what it could do to him, might do to him on a whim. It goes out of its way to remind him. He can't help but trust it for that.

"You're a fool, Archivist." They're both fools, Jon thinks, as he tastes fractals dancing across his tongue. It presses a kiss to his temple, and he scatters into stardust, holding on tightly. All that's real is Michael and its impossible self and corridors and the feeling of its hands in his hair its lips on his skin. Jon is just dust given life, pieces of scattered fallen stars in an all too fragile body. The dust cloud turns, presses itself all over Michael, wrapping it around itself, holding tightly and kissing desperately and scattered stars swirling together, gas clouds in the void that taste faintly of rasberries, galaxies crash together and consume each other, and Michael kisses Jon until he's falling apart. Michael gets pushed together, infinite edges made solid, made real, and Jon still doesn't know it, couldn't know anything like this, couldn't even want to, couldn't even dream of it. 

"Michael," the cloud of stardust that is called Jon and Archivist and My Archivist whispers. "Michael. Michael. Michael." It could kill him so easily, take him like this and scatter him forever, split the pieces that make him up apart. It doesn't. Jon knows it never would. If Michael decides to kill him it will do it as honestly as it can, leading him so deep into the corridors that Jon could never hope to leave. Jon wonders if he'd go willingly, if he'd ask Michael to change him then, let it distort him beyond recognition. He thinks like this that he might. He's never truly appreciated how he is formed of atoms upon atoms upon atoms, how his atoms have been used and reused and reused since the beginning of time, since all of the matter flung itself into the corners of an endless void, drifting farther and farther apart, stretching out as far as it could ever hope to do. Jon feels- Jon feels infinite. 

It kisses him again, and Jon coalesces. "I love you, Archivist." Michael is the throat of lies and when it says that Jon trusts those words implicitly.


End file.
